Maybe It's a Mistake
by Jelly-Bean-Jr
Summary: "Let's get this straight; I don't like you, and you're not my soul mate. We'll never be anything more than friends, got it?" I stare up at Embry, confused for a moment as I bring my hand up to touch my lips that he just kissed. I look away from him. "Why don't you just not be around me?" I suggest, cringing at the sound of my voice. His face softens. "Because I need you." -Embry/OC


WARNING: this is slash, meaning boy x boy relationship. Don't like, don't read.

**Author note:** Kind of wanted to go in a different direction with this story. So this is a re-write. Hope it's a bit better than the original :3 (Original deleted)

Review?

**Jelly-Bean-Jr.

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**Chapter zero: **Compare

**Denley's point of view:**

"_He's very fragile mom, try not to upset him too much," my very own mother spoke in a hushed whisper that _almost_ hid the huskiness in her voice caused by smoking. Her shifty, dilated pupils somehow trained and focused on my grandmother with so much intensity that she herself was sweating at the brow (or was that from withdrawal?). Staring between the wrinkles of my grandma, and the sunken cheeks of my mom I find that I can't quite speak up. Perhaps it was the force and determination behind the woman that semi-raised me that glued my mouth shut from interrupting their conversation, or maybe I was too weak to acknowledge the pathetic act from the one and only parental figure I had right before my eyes. _

_When those familiar cracked lips quiver, I know it's the latter._

_Through it all, through the sternness, the motivation and values that she always pretended to have, it was right then I could see how fragile _she _was. Not me. The pre-mature, homosexual, fading and rumpled son was the strongest link of our two man pack – and that was sad, pitiful. _

"_Don't worry yourself; I assure you he'll be just fine with me. I'll toughen this little flower." I jolt in surprise when a surprisingly strong elderly hand claps down on my shoulder, "I'll turn him into a strong boy. I'll bet you won't even recognize him if you see him again." If?_

_There's an unspoken communication that passes through grandma's clear eyes and mom's cloudy ones, forcing me to depend on their body language alone to decipher what was really going on. The stiffening of mom's shoulders is nothing new; she's distressed and on the verge of another breakdown. The slackness and philosophical posture of grandma's frame is questioning, but speaks volumes. I realize grandma using the word 'if' was just her being nice. There was no if. _

_I stay behind, and mom leaves for good. _

_I think my eyes water for a second, and maybe my hands are shaking with the sudden clashing of hormones and emotions, however, I can't find the strength to say goodbye to my only mother. _

_She can't either. _

Contemplating the topic of abandonment was more or less depressing when you're alone, it really depends on who you're abandoned by, I suppose. Somehow, being willingly abandoned by a drugged out street whore had a slightly positive feel to it. My memories of my mom were far from foggy or disoriented, I remember each word and action of hers with outstanding clarity; but somehow, her face always seemed a bit off in my thoughts. I solely blamed my melodramatic childhood mind. Surely her cheeks couldn't have been so hollow to have gained shadows? She must have put _some _thought or care into the yellowing of her nails and teeth. And, by God, any woman who's pushed out a child must have enough common decency to cover more skin than not, don't they? Her eyes, too…I could have sworn I've seen them without the clouding and lost glaze added to the dark blue. Haven't I?

"You're brooding again, faggot," Connor's sharp voice stung as usual and I reluctantly force my gaze to meet his overly-smug one. Where'd he come from? I don't have much time to dwell on the questions because I'm quickly distracted when he peeks his tongue out to lick at his bottom lip sensually enough to make my cheeks go red; should I be disgusted? Turning my head when the answers rings loud and clear I shift a little bit further away from his warmth.

"I'm not," I defend simply; my satisfaction with the comeback short lived when he chuckles dryly.

"You're not _what_; brooding, a faggot? Elaborate a little bit, Den." His tone makes me want to grit my teeth and punch him, of course Connor never means to offend; he's only teasing. I know different though. He's only really with me for the experience, and maybe even as a joke; but if it was a joke, it's solely a joke to himself. He doesn't have any friends – so I'm convinced it's the former.

Who wouldn't be a little curious to start a homosexual relationship at our age? It's exploration. At least, on Connor's side it is.

For the time being I've convinced myself that I'm just being nice and succumbing to his curiosity by not breaking up with him. Another, smaller part of me says that Connor is the best I'll ever do in my entire life and I should endure and accept his numerous flaws and look at the positive. There's no mistaking that he's good looking, and his personality can be endearing at times, plus all couples have hard times, right?

More than aware I've paused too long I turn my face away from Connor's (is it just me, or has his smirk gotten bigger?).

"I'm nothing more and nothing less than what you are," I hear myself saying. I'm not surprised when he doesn't take my words lightly. He tends to overreact.

I find that I don't like that very much.

Then again, it's uncertain whether or not I'll ever be able to find someone else, nevertheless, someone _better_.

"I'm not a _faggot_, faggot." The words he says in that order is kind of funny, but he's serious, so I don't laugh.

"You like me," I say quietly, and of course it's not a question, I know he likes me, or he just really likes-

"How can I not?"

-the attention I give him.

I stare at him again, something clicking in my head. He must think the words he said prior to my staring moved me so he reaches forward and brings me into his arms for a hug.

When I hug him back, feeling the slightly cold flesh on my own, I can't help but decide that he reminds me a lot of my mother. They're both lost, overly curious, sensitive, on the edge…begging for attention and affection. The only different is that I know Connor is alive, my mother, I'm not too sure.


End file.
